


The Ten Thousand Dollar Man

by Defnotmeyo



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, TB or not TB?, that is the question
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:20:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28924212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defnotmeyo/pseuds/Defnotmeyo
Summary: Arthur Morgan took out enough Pinkertons on his way down that he's worth as much dead as he is alive.  There's only one bounty hunter willing to head up to Roanoke Ridge in the middle of a gang war though, to claim her prize, and what she finds (or doesn't) will lead her down a path she never thought she'd walk.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan And Charles Smith, Arthur Morgan and John Marston, Arthur Morgan and Sadie Adler, Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s), Arthur's gang - Relationship
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Roanoke Ridge

Charles Smith was no fan of Bluewater Marsh, and never had been. 

He wasn’t sure what was worse: the bigots, the alligators, or the snakes. On that particular night though, fogged in and with an odd humidity that was sticky yet cool, he thought he was probably more irritated by the man draped over the back of his Appaloosa mare, Taima. 

She nickered at him indignantly as they crashed through the swampy undergrowth.

A storm, her namesake, brewed miles away, with distant thunderclaps.

A groan came from their stowed cargo, followed by a wet and hacking cough. 

Charles grimaced. “You spit blood near my horse one more time, old man, I’ll kill you myself.” It was an empty threat, and Charles knew it.

Another cough was followed by a strained, “Shoulda left me, Char…” a gruff sound of pain, buried deep, and his stowaway cleared his throat, “Charles… ahhhh, you shoulda left m……” 

Mercifully, the man must have passed back out in a wheeze. 

Charles slowed Taima to a halt, just off the road headed south to St. Denis, and looked for his bearings. There, about ten yards off, he picked up the tracks again. Unmistakable. 

Abigail Roberts had taken a horse from their camp; a Tennessee Walker named Branwen, who’d been left behind at his rider’s violent demise. Charles had ridden enough with his former owner, Kieran Duffy, to know exactly the marks those tracks would make, especially coming south out of Copperhead Landing. 

“John…” he muttered to himself, “you fucking idiot.” The horse’s tracks were headed right back into trouble. 

“No…” another cough and groan from behind him and Charles winced, “argument there.”

“Shoulda gagged you, you ungrateful bastard,” Charles mumbled, and he lightened just a bit, feeling the man’s huffed laugh more than hearing it. 

“No argument… there,” his passenger repeated.

Charles felt a momentary flash of guilt as he stared at the tracks running straight into Bayou Nwa. This trip was going to take him days, maybe weeks off his track with the Wapiti. But if he could get the man back into the hands of John Marston, he could make up time. 

Besides, there was no way Charles was going to let him die by himself on that mountain, smothered in Pinkerton gunsmoke and with Micah’s blood still drying on his knuckles.

He took off at a moderate canter, worried about his cargo. “You better live, wasi’chu,” he grumbled, but there was obvious affection in his voice. Obvious heart break. 

“Tryin’.” Hmm. Not passed out, then.

“Remember, Arthur Morgan,” Charles pointed Taima further west as the tracks he was following changed direction. He felt it in his heart when Arthur grew weaker. Felt the urgency. He had to get Arthur to a place where he could rest, and fast. “We ride with you,” and at that with a dig of his spurs, “Yah!” 

\-----

Sadie Adler never liked Rhodes. She hated it worse than St. Denis, but that was mostly because the dirt stuck to her clothes like caked blood. Still, there was one good thing about Rhodes, if she were honest with herself.

It had a unique proclivity to host a shoot-out.

She was in one currently, and if the yelping and yowling were any indication, the agitators were unsurprisingly the Lemoyne Raiders. 

She considered the fact that since the Van Der Linde gang had cleared the landscape of the rot and filth known as the Grays and Braithwaites, it seemed these disgusting maggots had been privy to make their presence known again.

It was unfortunate her shots rang a little untrue, but considering the drink she’d drowned, and the circumstances, she couldn’t be mad at herself. And she still dropped half the men she sat her eye on. 

It wasn’t until the second wave of Raiders that Sadie gasped as she was pulled back from her logjam barricade by rough and calloused hands. She kicked and growled at her aggressor, tried to drive the heel of her boot into his instep, but it turned out she hadn’t needed to expend the effort. There was a wet thump above her, and her assailant’s grip instantly loosened, as they both fell to the ground. 

Sadie looked down at her attacker first, noted the quick-forming bruise and blood seeping from his temple and eye-socket, and her eyes rose to meet her savoir. And widened at the sight.

The woman was thinner than her in the hips, heavier in the shoulders, slung with a repeater and bandolier, though her current murder weapon was a Schofield revolver, the handle tainted with the man on the ground’s blood. 

“Who the hell-“

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman said, wrenching Sadie’s wrist to pull her away. 

Sadie normally would have fought her off, but after a long four days out of Beaver Hollow, she complied. The pair rushed low through the backyards of Rhodes until Sadie was able to whistle down Bob, the golden Turkoman barely slowing enough for her to mount. 

Just behind her, her current partner in crime jumped onto the back of a midnight black American Standardbred and yipped, spurring the horse into action. There were few horses that could run down Bob, but apparently this was one of them.

The gunshots faded into the distance amidst a red cloud of Rhodes dirt blanketing the space behind the women. The Standardbred had taken the lead and Sadie saw no reason for the moment to split, so instead continued to follow, her curiosity piqued. 

She joined the woman out a mile and a half from Rhodes, by a campfire with a tent that had been already set up. 

The woman was breathless as she dismounted. “By damn, that was some shit back there!”

Sadie arched an eyebrow her way. “No doubt. Bad business.”

“What chu get into out there, honey bunch?”

“Just a little Lemoyne scuffle,” Sadie spat into the dirt, “But if I hear honey bunch again, them Raiders ain’t gonna be the only ones seeing the undertaker tomorrow.”

The woman barked a sharp laugh as she unslung her repeater and moved to sit by the fire, tossing a can of fruit Sadie’s way and pulling a bottle of liquor from a knapsack tucked into the tent. “Take a seat. Law’s gonna be combing through here all night after  
that. Might as well get comfortable and pretend to be travelers.”

Sadie immediately saw through the act. Saw uncommon kindness. 

And maybe it spoke to the past six months of her life that a can of food and a spot by the fire was uncommon, but there was something off about the whole situation as far as she was concerned. No reason for another woman strapped to high Heaven to be skirting Rhodes.

“What do you want from me?” she confronted the woman then, before allowing herself to settle by the fire. 

The woman grinned, and her smile didn’t settle Sadie at all. She had begun slicing into an apple with a small paring knife, and she leveled the blade Sadie’s way.

“Well, Ms. Adler," at that, Sadie flinched, "my name is Maggie Jones, and my interest in saving you is two-fold tonight.” Maggie offered the bottle of gin Sadie’s way.

“Save is a strong word,” Sadie grumbled, but she took the bottle nonetheless and sucked down a shot before handing it back Maggie’s way. She didn’t bother to question how Maggie Jones knew her name. 

These things had a way of sorting themselves in due manner.

Maggie grimaced across from her as she took another pull of the gin. “Semantics. Look, you ain’t dumb, and neither of us are gettin’ any younger so I’ll just cut to the chase.”

Sadie motioned to her, a “please do.” 

Maggie moved to her knapsack and pulled a rolled-up paper from it. Sadie recognized a bounty poster when she saw it, and her eyes shifted towards Bob. The stallion was maybe fifteen yards away, grazing over what little grass he could find in the swampy undergrowth. 

A cackle from the other woman startled Sadie and jolted the thoughts of her escape plan should she need it. “Oh honey, don’t you worry, I ain’t seen no posters with your pretty mug pop up on ‘em yet. No, no… You’ve got information for me, I think.”

Sadie was already tired of the games. “And I ain’t no fool, so let’s get on with it. Who are you and why’re you in Rhodes?”

“Because I’ve been following along with the Van Der Linde gang,” Maggie shrugged like it was nonchalant. Maybe to her, it was. “And I’ll tell you one thing, Ms. Adler, I followed you straight down from Copperhead Landing. And I know just where you and John Marston split up.”

Sadie stood at that, bristling. “You a bounty hunter, Ms. Jones? That it? Well let me tell you, you go after John-“

“No, no, no,” Maggie stood across from her, hands held up. “I’m not going to hunt down a man and his family.”

“Then what’s this charade for? Out with it. I ain’t opposed to killin’ for less than annoyance.”

Maggie tossed the rolled poster down to Sadie’s feet. “That is, I ain’t going to hunt down a man and his family when I have something more valuable to take to the sheriff.”

Sadie picked up the poster, held back a grimace once she unrolled it and saw the man in question. Let the paper curl back on itself as she tossed it back Maggie’s way. “Hate to break it to you, but that man’s dead.”

“Papers say dead or alive. I’m willing to bet you know how to track down a ten-thousand-dollar bounty.” Maggie stepped around the bounty poster, closer to Sadie. “We’re both women in this world, Ms. Adler. You know how hard it is. You know what ten thousand could mean. Hell… I’ll split it with you.”

Sadie risked turning away, exasperated with the woman and disgusted. “I ain’t diggin’ up no dead man to turn into the cops, friend or not. But I certainly ain’t diggin’ up _that_ dead man. And if you have aims to, I’d watch your back, if I were you.”

“Hmm. Friend of yours?”

Sadie had enough. At that, her temper popped off, and she grabbed the shorter woman by the lapel of her coat, twisting her and pinning her against the trunk of the oak the camp was set up by. 

Maggie was unflustered, and grinned. “More than a friend?”

“What’s your aim here, bitch?” Sadie growled. “Told you, I ain’t digging him up, and not for all the money in the world.”

Maggie’s hand came up and gripped Sadie’s arm tight, ready to try and pull away. “Then maybe you’d be more interested in the other little fact I happen to know.”

Sadie’s fist loosened just enough.

“You can’t dig up a grave that ain’t there.”

At that, Sadie let her go and stepped back. “What you talking about?

Maggie brushed her jacket off, likely trying to remove that red Rhodes dust. “There weren’t no body.”

“What?” Sadie continued dumbly.

“There weren’t no body, Ms. Adler,” Maggie repeated. “Up on Roanoke Ridge.”

“That’s… that’s impossible.”

Maggie shrugged and moved past her recent companion. “Either someone came and got him or he ain’t dead. Don’t matter much to me. He’s worth ten large either way.” She scuffed dirt into their meager campfire and began shoving some of the items laying around into her knapsack. 

Sadie stared after the woman as she hurriedly broke camp and slumped back against the oak in a stupor. 

Quickly packed, Maggie whistled, and her Standardbred strode right on up. She slung her gear onto his back and herself upon his saddle, looking down at Sadie. “We’re not dumb women, Ms. Adler. I know who you rode with. I’m headed up to Van Horn. You help me find him? Bring him in? I’ll leave the Marstons alone. You don’t?” she maneuvered her horse, facing North, “the next rope Jack Marston sees will be the one his father’s swinging from. Yah!”

The bounty poster lay by the deadened fire, unfurling. 

Had she left him up there, alone? Yes, but he was dying, right? Had died. Right?

But without a body…

His face stared back at her before the corner of the poster caught on an ember and began to burn.

Arthur Morgan. $10,000. Wanted: Dead or Alive.


	2. Lemoyne

“Easy, Arthur.”

Arthur struggled, choking back a thick and rotten gasp of air tinged with the copper taste of blood. Picked up the tin can next to his bed and spat in it. 

Disgusted with himself, he flopped back on to his bed and threw his arm across the lids of his eyes. Panting, he still managed a full sentence. 

“Charles, I will never forgive your dumb ass.”

Charles smiled as he continued to peel an apple at the decrepit counter. He’d managed to find a small cabin at the north end of Ringneck Creek, deserted enough except for the rats. Still too wet for Arthur, but not cold like Beaver Hollow, and the days resting had done the man some good.

“You’ll owe my dumb ass, soon enough Arthur,” Charles strode his way, scraping one of the wooden dining chairs behind him. He sat astride it, opposite of the way intended and straddled the back. 

He leaned Arthur’s way and handed him a slide of apple which the man took without hesitation. 

“Good,” Charles mumbled around his own slice. “Nice to see you eat.”

It was a testament to how sick Arthur was that instead of a retort, Charles only had to endure his side-eye.

It was hard enough to kill Arthur Morgan, apparently. Micah had beat him near to death as far as Charles could tell. The bruises that still raked Arthur’s knuckles told him the man hadn’t gone down easily. 

Micah was likely elsewhere, coughing up his own share of blood. Charles couldn’t help but hope the rat suffered the same fate as Arthur. That Arthur had gotten him just as sick.

They worked through the meager meal Charles had prepared, together. A little bit of venison, some fruit, and a can of beans.

Not much, but Arthur’s pallor had already started to fade. At the very least, it wasn’t bad for a man now considered a ghost.

Charles scraped his boot against the wooden floor, uncomfortable in the silence and with his thoughts weighing heavily. Heavily, and then interrupted.

“Say it.”

Charles winced. For all they liked to talk shit in the gang, Arthur was remarkably perceptive. 

“You need a doctor.”

Arthur coughed and dragged his sleeve across his lips. “Already seen a doctor, Charles. Ain’t gonna change anything.”

The quiet between them sat.

Arthur thought himself a dying man, and Charles had drawn that out, made it longer. Prolonged the suffering. Charles wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to get past that. Not as gang members or partners, not as brothers, and certainly not as friends.

“Go,” Arthur mumbled. “Go be with the Wapiti, Charles.”

Charles glanced up at Arthur briefly before returning his gaze back to the wooden floor. 

In Charles’s life, he’d rarely felt loyal to a fault. He knew a bad situation when he saw one. That’s why he’d run it alone for years. And he was no fool when Dutch started to tip off the edge. He knew he’d needed to get out.

The Wapiti. 

Charles could look in a mirror and see himself in them. There was no doubt they could use him on their ride north.

“Go,” Arthur emphasized.

But like dying on that mountain, Charles couldn’t imagine leaving this man dying alone in this cabin, either. Not in his sweat and filth. Not when Charles himself had stolen him from a peaceful enough death.

“I can catch them in days.”

The question remained. Where would he take Arthur? And where would Arthur go? 

Charles wouldn’t leave the man to die.

“I got horses.”

“Mmm?”

“Got a horse up here near,” there was a wet cough and Charles winced again when the slap of spit hit the tin can near the bed, “Ahhh Christ. Near here. That stable up North. Big, mean bastard named Buell.”

“Yeah?”

“Get him for me, Charles, and I’ll ride south. You’ll never hear from me again.”

Unburdening himself. Still…

“You’ll never make it south, Arthur.”

The older man grinned at him, but Charles wasn’t convinced. His eyes, bloodshot as they were, were empty. Then Arthur laughed, maybe a bit too hard, because he succumbed back into his coughing.

Charles slapped him on his back as he rose. “I bring you that horse, you’re going to go after John.”

At that, Arthur shot up, face as serious as Charles had ever seen him. 

“Nah. Ain’t goin anywhere near John. Not like this.”

“Where then?”

Arthur huffed and collapsed back to his bed, threw his arm back over his eyes.

“Christ.” It hit Charles like cold water. No way in hell would Arthur go near John. But those that dared to go near John themselves?

“I’ll take him down, just like everyone else.”

Arthur was serious.

“You’re going to go after Ross.”  
\-----  
Ten thousand dollars was a lot of money. 

If Sadie Adler were so inclined, she’d ride on up to Roanoke Ridge herself and see if Arthur was still there. 

She could use ten large.

But she wasn’t so inclined and never would be. He was her friend. And he was a good man, as far as she could tell. 

Hell, they were all thieves and killers, but at least Arthur had something of a code.

He’d want her to turn his corpse in, and it was for that exact reason that Sadie Adler never would. 

But if there was no body?

She rode up to Copperhead herself and could see the mess of tracks leading from the small, broken cabin. 

She could still see it clearly. Herself, Abigail, Tilly, Jack, their horses… John after the battle at Roanoke…

And she’d never seen John like that. 

He scared the shit out of them, riding up, broken and bloody. He had been more than half a mess. Soaked in his own blood and on a horse adorned with a Pinkerton badge on her saddle.

He had scooped Abigail and Jack right up onto the saddle of another mare he’d brought along with him, trailing behind him. His eyes had been as large and white as the horse’s, and he’d been pale and shaking. 

“We gotta go Abby!” and that had nearly been that. He’d clapped a strong hand on Sadie’s shoulder, a sincere, “Thank you.” Probably the most sincere words of his life.

That had been it, really, and everything was a mess after that. 

But the tracks at Copperhead told a story, and as Sadie studied them, she pieced apart those from John’s horse as they struck west. 

If Arthur was alive, the quickest way to get to him was going to be through John. 

Sadie had two choices.

She could head north, back up to Roanoke herself and see if the woman from Rhodes had been right. 

She could surely track down a dead man from a mountain if she followed the blood long enough.

Or…

Ah hell. 

Sadie looked closer at the tracks. Branwen’s headed west, but there were hoofprints following closely after, and a little fresher. Taima, if she had to guess. Charles’s horse was heavy in the rear and had a damn distinct gait. 

So at least one of the men had been here. 

And then… then Sadie gasped. 

She couldn’t miss it, dropped there useless in the mud. 

The handle practically gleamed up her way, after all. 

A fine wood, maple, carved into with the antlers of a ten-point stag. Golden etchings along the blue steel of the revolving chamber and barrel. 

Arthur’s revolver.

Shit.

Sadie scooped up the weapon and checked it for ammo before tossing it into her saddlebag.

Maggie Jones had been right. 

Arthur wasn’t dead on that mountain. Far from it, if the gun were any indication.

And so, with a quick dig of her spurs to Bob’s sides, she followed the tracks west.

When she bedded down for the night, though, she had to smirk to herself at the ineptitude displayed by the woman bounty hunter, for Sadie saw the distant smoke of the campfire and knew she was being tailed. 

She would have been stupid to think she had been alone.

Half of her was tempted to stride right on up to that camp with a stick of dynamite and let Maggie know exactly what the Van Der Lindes did with scum like her.

But then… there weren’t any Van Der Lindes now, other than the man himself, right? And Sadie had never truly been one. 

Sadie edged up enough on her hip to take out a drawing from her back pocket – one of Arthur’s. He’d broken down and given her something from that journal after all, there in those last days.

Bob had been in the distance, lopping up wild carrots just before they lay siege to the Hanging Dog Ranch. Sadie had been sketched loosely in the foreground. 

And she remembered Arthur’s blushing smile, giving it to her before they head out that morning. “Might be something for you to remember me by yet, Mrs. Adler.”

If he was alive, and that was a big if…

Sadie wasn’t letting Maggie within a hundred miles of him. 

So, under the cover of darkness and her campfire still going, Sadie saddled up Bob and quietly spurred him forward, following Taima’s tracks as close as she could in the dark.

There was a little cabin up by Ringneck creek she knew of. The gang had used it more than once as a shortstop between Clemens Point and Emerald Ranch. 

If she were a betting woman, Charles would have headed there. 

If she were a betting woman, she would have shorted on Maggie Jones, figuring her to sleep at that little campfire in the distance.

But as Sadie strapped down her repeater to Bob and set out for Ringneck Creek, Maggie smiled from her vantage point behind the camp. 

With any luck, she’d have Morgan’s corpse over her horse by morning.


End file.
